I greatly appreciate your thoughtful answer to my questions about memoir and transparency. I want to respond by referencing your memoir, (Re)Making Love.
I've gone back to re-read the chapters you referenced in your written answer, "Deceptive Cadence" and "The Bartender." I found them once again to be very...sexy in an authentic and artistic way. I understand that it is far far easier to read about sex than to write about it. Your doing so makes me want to be more bold in my own writing.
I don't know how you write about an intimate relationship where sex is an important issue without writing about sex. It seems essential to your memoir.
I guess one test would be to look at a version of your memoir where every reference to sex was deleted. I think that version would veer far off center. And I think the details you shared were crucial to giving the reader an understanding of your story.
So I believe it satisfies test #2 from X.P. Callahan. The intimate details are material to your story.
You write about feeling ashamed. My perspective as a reader was that your shame was that you were rejected, something we can all relate to. But the sexual rejection is part of the overall behavior of D. Again, rejection is hard to write about. No one feels good about themselves when they're rejected. But the way you write about rejection opens up the memoir to us.
At the same time, I don't think your memoir is at all what Adam Nathan warns about, which is making the pain the point. Pain is part of the story, but you are battling it in every chapter and in every chapter finding a measure of grace.
I thought a lot about the question of revenge. You wouldn't be yourself if you didn't express anger and frustration at D.
I'm angry and frustrated at D. and I have no idea who he is!
Anger and frustration are different than revenge and are not mutually exclusive with compassion and love. It's a cliché that the people we love make us the angriest.
I understand why you question yourself as to your motivation, because in your memoir, in your story as you experienced it and as you remember it, D. does not come off looking good at all. But, that doesn't mean you slanted the truth toward revenge.
In fact, I see your trying to understand D.'s behavior as a central theme. If you were seeking revenge, you wouldn't be searching for understanding, you'd have drawn up an indictment and started the prosecution.
Your memoir works so well, because, as Eleanor said, we trust you. You are giving us all of you, the good and the bad, the moments of hurt and the moments of grace.
I don't see any ugliness, only a beautiful person and a beautiful writer.
Memoir is tricky. It's non-fiction structured like a novel. Because it's real you haven't got the fallback of invention. There's less in the toolkit for building your house.
"I lost the man I loved and continued seeking him. He could at any time comment and disagree here and elsewhere—and he’s not done so. Perhaps he forgives me?"
The gift to the memoir writer (and it can be a big gift) is not to publicly question them. The gift to them is not to sell their pain, but to sell one's experience of it.
The Memoirist's Dilemma is how to handle all of this. It's more than fascinating hearing you and Eleanor tackle this. You both share a lot which is an inspiration to me as a writer. I thank you both for that. This is a good question for you both to answer.
You haven't inquired, but if I have any memoirist's approach it is that one should never "prostitute" one's past, where the pain itself is the point. "Look how I've suffered" as the point is missing what true memoir is about (imho). It's about how I managed it, overcame it, was crushed by it, etc. it's the response not the event. Memoirists shouldn't go "slumming" about in their past. Or in the lives of those they write about. It's a matter I suppose of treating one's own life and the lives of others with dignity.
And I'm pretty sure treating people and things with dignity is the only moral precept that matters.
I love, love, love the Jabès quote. I don't think one should start off making a point of this, but when stuff comes up that fits the bill, they shouldn't shy away from it. it's almost a contract with the reader. (fwiw, there's a story I'm completely hiding right now because I don't have the courage to risk putting git to paper. At some point, though, I'll rise up from the cowardice and go outside and stand in the Light.)
Thank you as ever Mary for the video with Eleanor, and for this fascinating topic. I'm re-reading your memoir right now, (Re)Making Love, and the questions raised drew me back to it and my experience as a reader. When you stress your own "foolishness" in its telling, I automatically think of the "romantic comedy" genre that you invoke, placing yourself as a character beset by one disaster after another (whether it's a disastrous home move or the disappareance of your make up bag in an airplane.) All fine strategies for reminding the reader that this is a story about you and not about D.
In most memoirs, I suppose the question of "revenge" is there in the back of the reader's mind, though perhaps not consciously, but it definitely adds to the suspense - will you be able to walk a fine line all the way to the end? Will you cross it? Will the reader side with D. against you, for example, on "(Re)Making Love"? I feel that it creates narrative tension and propels the story. This notion of "revenge" also goes hand in hand with the "intimacy" that you spoke about in the video, adding weight to the details and memories shared. Ultimately, I agree with you that it's a journey of your own self-discovery and how you navigated it without hurting others.
Two questions for the author of a memoir manuscript:
1. If not for your writing, would this private information concerning another person remain private? If your answer is "no," write freely; if "yes," continue to question 2.
2. Have the circumstances surrounding this private information involved a major and material contribution to, or effect on, your life? If "yes," this is your life experience, and you are free to write about it; if "no," you are invading another person's privacy and crossing a line.
In my many years as a book editor, I did not administer this brief questionnaire to anyone, since my job was not to control anyone else's expression. That said, even a cursory examination of a manuscript would show me when the author had (implicitly) answered "yes" to question 1, and "no" to question 2, but had chosen to disclose private information anyway. For that reason--and especially in the midst of the "memoir glut," which coincided with an observable rise in narcissism in our culture--I usually turned down opportunities to work on memoir manuscripts and left that work to other editors, who presumably had a different understanding of the ethical stakes.
I didn't discuss my reasons with any of these authors. First, I was not serving as a publishing gatekeeper; with or without my editorial work, someone was going to publish these manuscripts if they promised to make enough money. And, second, to my mind, the issues were not about writing but about character, and therefore not my business.
I’m fascinated by this topic too as I write my own memoir. There’s a sort of “do what’s right” that’s sort of inherent in one’s writing. If you cross that line (ie revenge) I think the reader knows, but there’s also editors who can call this out. I had that called out in one of my essays and I wasn’t quite aware. Intent matters and again, I think readers know too. They also know that characters/people are multifaceted and the one who has the pen is only one lens.
Mary! I just made a note about this brilliant conversation. And I want you to know I wasn't being hyperbolic. I, too, came to writing late--or at least to finishing and sharing anything I'd written. A huge factor was this very subject matter. I knew from a young age I wanted to write and be published. And I received messages in a number of direct and indirect ways that words, mine specifically, hurt others and should not be used to do so. I've for many years silenced myself, and I'm terribly glad to be pushing through that. I still am. Most of my posts here on Substack are personal essay or creative nonfiction. And while it's likely not apparent to many, because of my background or me or whatever mix of things makes it so, many of them feel brave. I have to weigh the intense sadness of possibly disappointing or hurting people I love against this need in me to write my emotional truth--to tell my version of things.
Over years of investigating the question David is asking and my own juxtaposing needs, I've collected a file of guidelines for myself on how to navigate writing about things that may be difficult for others. And this conversation is already adding more to it.
And one more thing about the importance of these discussions. A new way to think of my own struggle around this question has occurred to me during the composing of this response. I've wondered why the writing was so hard. I've certainly conducted my life as I saw fit, regardless of my path veering sharply from the one laid out for me and definitely making those I love none too happy. But in many ways, I've lived my motivations and beliefs in private. Those are the closer, more intimate parts than the actions, if that makes any sense, and what the writing gets to.
I loved this post. It makes me think on my own writing and how to convey themes and ideas concisely. I would love for people to find the truth I’m displaying regardless of if it’s nonfiction or fiction so this answer speaks volumes to me.
Dear Mary, This is great question and my attention was immediately captured specifically in your answer- 'If the lines between fiction and non-fiction were clean and firm, one might argue that the fiction writer may go further, take more risks under the cover of fiction; the memoirist faces more dangers, don’t you think?'
My answer is yes - of course - but maybe the memoirist is still a fiction writer of sorts. Our memory is imperfect and our recollection comes with the interpretation of hindsight to create the story of our life. I am currently ghost writing a memoir for a well-known psychotherapist and she has already commented that I seem to remember incidents from her life more accurately than she - and I was not there. My interpretation of events is fictional padding around an important moment in a life that is a story worth telling. And that's the point for me - is the result a story worth reading?
Dame Hilary Mantel's 'Giving Up The Ghost' is, in my opinion, a fine bench mark for both fiction writers and memoirists. It's disturbing, deeply authentic, revealing, and a great read. David Holland - Wolf Hall Weekend.
Mary, thanks for linking to my post and for stating the question so plainly: "If the lines between fiction and non-fiction were clean and firm, one might argue that the fiction writer may go further, take more risks under the cover of fiction; the memoirist faces more dangers, don’t you think?"
I wonder how writers like Molly Roden Winter, author of "More," justify sharing their books publicly while their children are still young (or young adults). That would be a line that I, personally, could not cross. But Winter must have felt that there was a silent population that she was speaking for, perhaps coaxing from the shadows, and that she needed to be the change she wanted to see in the world, and that some discomfort for her two sons was worth that risk. When book sales and a writing career are added to the mix, however, I think the ethics are more complicated -- clearly a popular book is doing more than merely offering a service to others.
But I also think of Tara Westover's "Educated," which tells many unsavory truths about her upbringing, about her parents, and about one of her abusive brothers. She must have reached a point in her life when there was no way of preserving those relationships without silencing herself in damaging ways. But I think she manages to tell her tale without intending obvious harm to anyone involved, without veering into vengeance. It is perhaps difficult to articulate what vengeful writing looks like (we know it when we see it, like literary fraud), but I think motive matters quite a lot. To what end is this painful truth being shared?
A friend of mine, Robert Vivian -- a poet and novelist and lyric essayist -- told one of my classes that if the writer begins with love in his/her heart, they'll end up in the right place. Quite a lot of us write out of pain and confusion, not love. Even so, I wonder if Bob is right, that a painful life story might still be driven by love (by compassion for oneself, or by love for others who share a trauma) even while being fueled occasionally by anger or grief. I have a rather angry essay about losing my grandparents (a longer version of what I published last year about evangelical funerals) that might fit this bill. But it's also possible that love isn't always part of the equation. Might anger sometimes be enough if the topic is just?
Dear Mary,
I greatly appreciate your thoughtful answer to my questions about memoir and transparency. I want to respond by referencing your memoir, (Re)Making Love.
I've gone back to re-read the chapters you referenced in your written answer, "Deceptive Cadence" and "The Bartender." I found them once again to be very...sexy in an authentic and artistic way. I understand that it is far far easier to read about sex than to write about it. Your doing so makes me want to be more bold in my own writing.
I don't know how you write about an intimate relationship where sex is an important issue without writing about sex. It seems essential to your memoir.
I guess one test would be to look at a version of your memoir where every reference to sex was deleted. I think that version would veer far off center. And I think the details you shared were crucial to giving the reader an understanding of your story.
So I believe it satisfies test #2 from X.P. Callahan. The intimate details are material to your story.
You write about feeling ashamed. My perspective as a reader was that your shame was that you were rejected, something we can all relate to. But the sexual rejection is part of the overall behavior of D. Again, rejection is hard to write about. No one feels good about themselves when they're rejected. But the way you write about rejection opens up the memoir to us.
At the same time, I don't think your memoir is at all what Adam Nathan warns about, which is making the pain the point. Pain is part of the story, but you are battling it in every chapter and in every chapter finding a measure of grace.
I thought a lot about the question of revenge. You wouldn't be yourself if you didn't express anger and frustration at D.
I'm angry and frustrated at D. and I have no idea who he is!
Anger and frustration are different than revenge and are not mutually exclusive with compassion and love. It's a cliché that the people we love make us the angriest.
I understand why you question yourself as to your motivation, because in your memoir, in your story as you experienced it and as you remember it, D. does not come off looking good at all. But, that doesn't mean you slanted the truth toward revenge.
In fact, I see your trying to understand D.'s behavior as a central theme. If you were seeking revenge, you wouldn't be searching for understanding, you'd have drawn up an indictment and started the prosecution.
Your memoir works so well, because, as Eleanor said, we trust you. You are giving us all of you, the good and the bad, the moments of hurt and the moments of grace.
I don't see any ugliness, only a beautiful person and a beautiful writer.
Best,
David
Memoir is tricky. It's non-fiction structured like a novel. Because it's real you haven't got the fallback of invention. There's less in the toolkit for building your house.
"I lost the man I loved and continued seeking him. He could at any time comment and disagree here and elsewhere—and he’s not done so. Perhaps he forgives me?"
The gift to the memoir writer (and it can be a big gift) is not to publicly question them. The gift to them is not to sell their pain, but to sell one's experience of it.
The Memoirist's Dilemma is how to handle all of this. It's more than fascinating hearing you and Eleanor tackle this. You both share a lot which is an inspiration to me as a writer. I thank you both for that. This is a good question for you both to answer.
You haven't inquired, but if I have any memoirist's approach it is that one should never "prostitute" one's past, where the pain itself is the point. "Look how I've suffered" as the point is missing what true memoir is about (imho). It's about how I managed it, overcame it, was crushed by it, etc. it's the response not the event. Memoirists shouldn't go "slumming" about in their past. Or in the lives of those they write about. It's a matter I suppose of treating one's own life and the lives of others with dignity.
And I'm pretty sure treating people and things with dignity is the only moral precept that matters.
I love, love, love the Jabès quote. I don't think one should start off making a point of this, but when stuff comes up that fits the bill, they shouldn't shy away from it. it's almost a contract with the reader. (fwiw, there's a story I'm completely hiding right now because I don't have the courage to risk putting git to paper. At some point, though, I'll rise up from the cowardice and go outside and stand in the Light.)
Thank you as ever Mary for the video with Eleanor, and for this fascinating topic. I'm re-reading your memoir right now, (Re)Making Love, and the questions raised drew me back to it and my experience as a reader. When you stress your own "foolishness" in its telling, I automatically think of the "romantic comedy" genre that you invoke, placing yourself as a character beset by one disaster after another (whether it's a disastrous home move or the disappareance of your make up bag in an airplane.) All fine strategies for reminding the reader that this is a story about you and not about D.
In most memoirs, I suppose the question of "revenge" is there in the back of the reader's mind, though perhaps not consciously, but it definitely adds to the suspense - will you be able to walk a fine line all the way to the end? Will you cross it? Will the reader side with D. against you, for example, on "(Re)Making Love"? I feel that it creates narrative tension and propels the story. This notion of "revenge" also goes hand in hand with the "intimacy" that you spoke about in the video, adding weight to the details and memories shared. Ultimately, I agree with you that it's a journey of your own self-discovery and how you navigated it without hurting others.
Two questions for the author of a memoir manuscript:
1. If not for your writing, would this private information concerning another person remain private? If your answer is "no," write freely; if "yes," continue to question 2.
2. Have the circumstances surrounding this private information involved a major and material contribution to, or effect on, your life? If "yes," this is your life experience, and you are free to write about it; if "no," you are invading another person's privacy and crossing a line.
In my many years as a book editor, I did not administer this brief questionnaire to anyone, since my job was not to control anyone else's expression. That said, even a cursory examination of a manuscript would show me when the author had (implicitly) answered "yes" to question 1, and "no" to question 2, but had chosen to disclose private information anyway. For that reason--and especially in the midst of the "memoir glut," which coincided with an observable rise in narcissism in our culture--I usually turned down opportunities to work on memoir manuscripts and left that work to other editors, who presumably had a different understanding of the ethical stakes.
I didn't discuss my reasons with any of these authors. First, I was not serving as a publishing gatekeeper; with or without my editorial work, someone was going to publish these manuscripts if they promised to make enough money. And, second, to my mind, the issues were not about writing but about character, and therefore not my business.
I’m fascinated by this topic too as I write my own memoir. There’s a sort of “do what’s right” that’s sort of inherent in one’s writing. If you cross that line (ie revenge) I think the reader knows, but there’s also editors who can call this out. I had that called out in one of my essays and I wasn’t quite aware. Intent matters and again, I think readers know too. They also know that characters/people are multifaceted and the one who has the pen is only one lens.
You guys -- together your written responses and the video are so compelling on the topic, I've written a long note I'm going to share.
Mary! I just made a note about this brilliant conversation. And I want you to know I wasn't being hyperbolic. I, too, came to writing late--or at least to finishing and sharing anything I'd written. A huge factor was this very subject matter. I knew from a young age I wanted to write and be published. And I received messages in a number of direct and indirect ways that words, mine specifically, hurt others and should not be used to do so. I've for many years silenced myself, and I'm terribly glad to be pushing through that. I still am. Most of my posts here on Substack are personal essay or creative nonfiction. And while it's likely not apparent to many, because of my background or me or whatever mix of things makes it so, many of them feel brave. I have to weigh the intense sadness of possibly disappointing or hurting people I love against this need in me to write my emotional truth--to tell my version of things.
Over years of investigating the question David is asking and my own juxtaposing needs, I've collected a file of guidelines for myself on how to navigate writing about things that may be difficult for others. And this conversation is already adding more to it.
And one more thing about the importance of these discussions. A new way to think of my own struggle around this question has occurred to me during the composing of this response. I've wondered why the writing was so hard. I've certainly conducted my life as I saw fit, regardless of my path veering sharply from the one laid out for me and definitely making those I love none too happy. But in many ways, I've lived my motivations and beliefs in private. Those are the closer, more intimate parts than the actions, if that makes any sense, and what the writing gets to.
All my gratitude to you and Eleanor and David.
I loved this post. It makes me think on my own writing and how to convey themes and ideas concisely. I would love for people to find the truth I’m displaying regardless of if it’s nonfiction or fiction so this answer speaks volumes to me.
Dear Mary, This is great question and my attention was immediately captured specifically in your answer- 'If the lines between fiction and non-fiction were clean and firm, one might argue that the fiction writer may go further, take more risks under the cover of fiction; the memoirist faces more dangers, don’t you think?'
My answer is yes - of course - but maybe the memoirist is still a fiction writer of sorts. Our memory is imperfect and our recollection comes with the interpretation of hindsight to create the story of our life. I am currently ghost writing a memoir for a well-known psychotherapist and she has already commented that I seem to remember incidents from her life more accurately than she - and I was not there. My interpretation of events is fictional padding around an important moment in a life that is a story worth telling. And that's the point for me - is the result a story worth reading?
Dame Hilary Mantel's 'Giving Up The Ghost' is, in my opinion, a fine bench mark for both fiction writers and memoirists. It's disturbing, deeply authentic, revealing, and a great read. David Holland - Wolf Hall Weekend.
Mary, thanks for linking to my post and for stating the question so plainly: "If the lines between fiction and non-fiction were clean and firm, one might argue that the fiction writer may go further, take more risks under the cover of fiction; the memoirist faces more dangers, don’t you think?"
I wonder how writers like Molly Roden Winter, author of "More," justify sharing their books publicly while their children are still young (or young adults). That would be a line that I, personally, could not cross. But Winter must have felt that there was a silent population that she was speaking for, perhaps coaxing from the shadows, and that she needed to be the change she wanted to see in the world, and that some discomfort for her two sons was worth that risk. When book sales and a writing career are added to the mix, however, I think the ethics are more complicated -- clearly a popular book is doing more than merely offering a service to others.
But I also think of Tara Westover's "Educated," which tells many unsavory truths about her upbringing, about her parents, and about one of her abusive brothers. She must have reached a point in her life when there was no way of preserving those relationships without silencing herself in damaging ways. But I think she manages to tell her tale without intending obvious harm to anyone involved, without veering into vengeance. It is perhaps difficult to articulate what vengeful writing looks like (we know it when we see it, like literary fraud), but I think motive matters quite a lot. To what end is this painful truth being shared?
A friend of mine, Robert Vivian -- a poet and novelist and lyric essayist -- told one of my classes that if the writer begins with love in his/her heart, they'll end up in the right place. Quite a lot of us write out of pain and confusion, not love. Even so, I wonder if Bob is right, that a painful life story might still be driven by love (by compassion for oneself, or by love for others who share a trauma) even while being fueled occasionally by anger or grief. I have a rather angry essay about losing my grandparents (a longer version of what I published last year about evangelical funerals) that might fit this bill. But it's also possible that love isn't always part of the equation. Might anger sometimes be enough if the topic is just?